Nightmare: The Sequel
by Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain
Summary: Sequel to Horror Story. The punishment begins, but for whom? 'R' for language. Part of the 'Hess' collection.
1. Day One

Disclaimer: I do not own _Enterprise_ or its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.

Author's note: Well, 'Horror Story' was _supposed_ to be a one-shot, but when it got to its end… where Hess goes, chaos follows. Thanks to my beta-readers, and blame Rinne for the original plot-idea. And read her stuff while you're at it.

**Nightmare: The Sequel**

I stare into the mirror and contemplate slitting my wrists. Today is the first day of my 'punishment shifts.' I'm supposed to report to Malcolm at 0800 precisely. Or 'Lieutenant Reed' as I must remember to go back to referring to him: he now – on a technicality – temporarily outranks me. If we were talking smell, I would have to agree, but this is about seniority.

Which I'll also hand to him – _if_ we're discussing age or decrepitness. But I refuse to accept the fact that he is a superior officer.

I'm also not doing too well, because it's been a long time since I worked a dayshift. There's a reason why I usually work the swing and night shifts: I may only sleep about two to three hours a day, but those hours are usually the morning ones. I am a night owl, and like it that way.

On the other hand, I _did_ break his ribs, even if I had good reason for doing so. Instead of suicide, I swallow the rest of my espresso and head out the door. I don't normally drink coffee in any form, but this qualifies as an emergency. This is going to be Starfleet as it was meant to be. This is going to suck.

No one looks at me on the way down there, or when I arrive, which is pretty much what I expected. No one except my new boss, who grunts. Clearly, I've disappointed him.

"At least you anticipated one thing, and saved me the lecture." He looks me up and down and nods. "I'm glad to see you realise that I'm not Commander Tucker."

"Not by a long-shot,_ Sir_." I haven't done my hair this morning, which is why no one noticed my existence. Dressed like everybody else, I tend to blend into the background.(1) I place the emphasis on the 'sir,' so that he understands that this is going to be entirely business. I intend to get this over with as soon as possible.

"A little more respect would be appreciated." He sounds like he did before he decided to save Commander Tucker's life.(2) In other words, he sounds like a complete and total prick.

I say nothing, but file it away for later. I won't be here forever, after all.

"If you would come with me…" He leads me off to a set of storage lockers. "Now, in your case this is against my better judgement, but all armoury officers are armed while on duty. However, first we have to qualify you with the weapons."

"Come off it, you know I can shoot. I can shoot better than you can." Maybe not the most respectful thing to say, but he's being ridiculous.

"I am going to test your skill," he says coldly. "If you could follow me…"

I'm itching to ask if he wants to test my hand-to-hand skills, too, but he's already got a pair of broken ribs that qualify me in that area, which is why I'm here in the first place.

He escorts me down to the firing range, and hands me a phase pistol. "For armoury officers, we expect more than for other officers. Now, I am aware that you qualified under general standards…"

"Just rack 'em up." If he wants to play the superiority game, I'll wipe that snotty little attitude right out of existence. While he sets up the targeting program, I check over the weapon to make sure that nobody's been playing games.

Ten minutes later, I'm still shooting, but he still hasn't said I can quit yet. So I switch to my left, and finally start missing a few. Not enough to bump me out of general qualification, but I doubt it's up to 'armoury officer' standards.

"I see we need to work on your attitude, still." He takes the weapon from me – apparently, it's still against his better judgement for me to have it. Oh well, he can't take them all.

"Unfortunately I can't give you to any of the regular teams," he shuts down the system and heads for the doors without looking at me. "They're too well balanced, and while technically you do outrank them, you are still new to the department, nor do you have armoury training."

"No, I'm an engineer." Which is why this is stupid. I am far more highly educated than an armoury officer.(3)

"We'll try to ignore that for the moment." He doesn't even try to match my pace; I have to stretch my legs to keep up with his. "As it stands, you will be working with me. I will provide you with assignments and you will do them as assigned. Is that clear?"

"As the inside of your head." There can't be too many obstructions in that skull.

"And from here on in, I will be making note of any insulting remarks. The captain has requested a report on your behaviour. A detailed report. Unlike Commander Tucker, I have standards. And that is not uniform code that you are wearing."

I stare at him. Like I said, I didn't even do my hair this morning. Then it hits me. "I am _not_ changing into uniform code boots. I don't care if you and the captain bust me down to Crewman, and charge me with every offence humanly – or even non-humanly–possible, these boots stay." After all, my hair is one thing, but these are my _boots_. These are custom-crafted to my feet and contain all the features an engineer could ever desire. I would think that even The Dense Malcolm Reed would know better than to come between a woman and her shoes.(4)

"Lieutenant…" he warns.

"You can have these boots when you take them from my cold, dead feet."

"You are getting damn close to insubordination." He stops and turns on me.

I stand up on my toes a bit so I can lean in close to his face. "Do it. Just _try_ it. I will make your life so fucking miserable that you will be begging God to send you to Hell just to get a break. _Nobody_ touches my boots, Mister."

"That _is_ insubordination." He leans in as well – being taller gives him an advantage in the looming game.

"Bite me." If I'm going to be busted, I'm going all the way.

And odd look comes over his face and he backs down. "Don't ever try that again."

"Weenie." I mutter. I fail to see how he ever gained the rank of lieutenant, not to mention in the most militaristic branch of Starfleet. Then I realise where I've seen that look before. He better stick to the rules, because if he calls me by my first name in front of anybody in the crew, I _will_ have to kill him.(5)

Fortunately, he doesn't seem inclined to call me anything. He just hurries back to the armoury without even checking to see if I'm following. I do, mostly because you never walk away in mid-rattle.

As soon as we get back, my strategy is in place. I beat him to his desk and sit down, pulling out the paperwork. A quick scan confirms my suspicions. This is going to be a cakewalk.

"Can I make a suggestion? Your inventory controls are off – I don't see a hard-count here for the last two weeks." Hard-counts are nasty, but necessary. There are too many scams that can be pulled when you rely solely on computer inventories. Two weeks may seem like a short time between counts, but the trick is to do one small section at a time, rather than shutting down the entire system for a few days.

"Excellent suggestion. Why don't you get out of my seat, and get on it?" He sounds like he thinks he's one-upping me… but it was what I had in mind. Inventory is the basis of everything – quartermasters rule the world. Not only that, but Malcolm is the kind of guy who _likes_ sitting down with some paperwork.(6) Now, after the hard-count comes the paperwork for it, and then I can _hardly_ be faulted for doing a little more. This train of thought reminds me of some other paperwork I need to get done as well.(7)

I grab a padd and pretend to take notes as he walks me through the different storage areas as though I don't know where they are. When I'm done with the forms, I forge Commander Tucker's name to the bottom(8) and put the padd in one of my pockets. Then I pull a notebook and pencil out of another one, and start scribbling.

"Just what do you think you're doing?"

"The job." I hold out the padd and show him the beginning grid I've assembled. I'm quite willing to let him think that it's for his hard-count, but in reality, it's a schedule for Engineering. After all, I never specified _which_ job I was doing.

"That seems a little inefficient." I can't believe it; he actually wrinkles his nose. If he thinks he will get sympathy from me by equating himself with a rabbit, he's sadly mistaken.

"I find it easier." That's because the scheduling program has so many bugs that supervisors have been known to develop ulcers when the seniority lists change.(9) So rather than destroy Rossie's health – he feels the same way about Commander Tucker and paperwork as I do – I'm re-working the schedule to accommodate my absence. Which is why it takes priority over anything from the armoury: I have to slip this to him before lunch, before Captain Archer starts asking for it. Which gives me a strategy to work with, if this farce goes on too long: I'll protest under grounds of cruel and unusual punishment. Not mine – I'd never give them the satisfaction of giving in – but Rossie's. He's got such great leadership potential, and Commander Tucker and I are enacting a delicate training program to solidify that potential. It would be a shame to see such a potentially stellar career cut short because of someone's stubborn inability to see that it was _his_ irresponsibility in running around in a drug-addled state that caused this whole situation in the first place.

But you can't get anywhere when it comes to Captain Archer, especially when blaming him. Even when he's wrong, he's right… it must have something to do with being the son-of-a-bitch in charge. In the meantime, I'll just have to make do with torturing Malcolm. After all, if he weren't so fragile, I wouldn't be here either.

Unfortunately, I don't get a chance to do much, because a certain armoury officer has decided not to trust me alone in his armoury. Instead, he stands and watches me as I begin a count of circuit boards, tossing the occasional one into a separate pile where it can help balance out the magically short Engineering counts.(10)

"What's this?" He nudges the Engineering pile. "You're supposed to count them, not play cards."

"Those are ours." I look up at him, with my most serious expression. "Or rather, they belong to Engineering." I pick up a padd, open a file and hand it to him. "That is a CST-3621947, Temporary Transfer of Common Supplies form. It should be filled out every time you require supplies from an Engineering stockpile. What you should _not_ do is ask Commander Tucker for supplies when he is busy, and take his distractedly waving hand as permission to help yourself to whatever you like."

He drops the padd on my head; it bounces off and hits the floor.(11)

"And that is assault, as defined by section 240 of the California Penal Code, which is the code in effect as this ship is based in San Francisco. Fortunately for you, I am going to take that as an accident and will forbear from pressing charges…"

He turns and walks away, his fingers twitching. This is going to be easier than I thought. Suddenly he reverses direction and comes back, leaning in close again.

"You might want to remember that you are on probation, Scarlett." He murmurs it right in my ear. I lose count, and turn to him.

"I thought I told you never to call me that. And now I have to start over again, because I can't remember where I was."

"I'm sure you'll manage." He's so close, that our foreheads are almost touching. I should kill him. I should just reach out and throttle him, or at the very least, drop him on his ass. But I don't.

"Malcolm, get out." It's all I can think of to say. I don't know what it is, but there are times when he limits my vocabulary.(12)

"It's my armoury, Scarlett. I decide who comes and goes." He taps me on the end of the nose, normally a dangerous move.

"I could bite that off, you know."

"You could try." His bravado isn't convincing me, though. He's scared I might actually do it.

"You're screwing up my count. Now get out of here, or people will get ideas."

"It won't hurt _my_ reputation." Given what his reputation is, probably not. It's rather hard to wreck what doesn't exist.

"Malcolm…" Unfortunately, it's hard to be threatening when you're four-ten, and can't use your hair to add any height.

"We'll continue this later." He leaves, and it's all I can do not to throw something at him.(13)

I wait until he's gone, then tiptoe over to the door and listen. It's all clear, so I sneak out and down the hallway. Then it's a matter of walking normally – after all, when nobody notices you, it's fairly easy to sneak.

I slip into Engineering, and across to Commander Tucker's desk. He's not there, so I get to work on the important things. Or I would, except…

"Can I help you?"

"No, I know what I'm doing."

"Excuse me but…"

"Yes, I know this is Commander Tucker's desk."

"Pardon me, but…"

"Does anyone around here pay attention anymore?"

The crewman who asked the last one blinks. "Um…"

"Pay attention to the voice. Look at the uniform. What do you see?"

"You're a Lieutenant?" This guy could earn the Witness of the Year award.

"Congratulations. Now what Georgia-born lieutenant would be sitting in Commander Tucker's chair and playing with the paperwork? Now get the hell out of here and leave me alone before I'm busted just for doing my job." I'm usually not this impatient with the crew, but I've had a morning of Malcolm and I can't quite handle it.

"Are you okay, Lieutenant?" This from Rossie, who was smart enough to keep his mouth shut until I finished removing the other guy's head. While his eyes may not believe it's me, his ears and survival instinct confirm it instantly.

"No. This reassignment thing is killing me. Now, here's the revised schedule, the T-222's, the M-386's and the HSMR3-98's." I hand him a stack of padds. "I've signed the important things, and initialled the rest – it should do. Remember, he needs his coffee in the mornings, or he's incapable of functioning. Be very nice to him before nine, you can slip in some abuse by noon. Make sure he eats on a semi-regular basis, sometimes he forgets and then he gets nasty when his blood-sugar drops. If he gets cranky – as opposed to nasty, you'll soon spot the difference – start taking over things for him and try to ease him out the door so he can get some rest. Now I've set a password protect on all the paperwork files – if you see him trying to hack into anything, let me know right away. Do _not_ under any circumstances let him be 'helpful.'"

"Yes, ma'am." Rossie looks a little nervous. "What should I do if he orders me to?"

"_Any_ circumstances, Rossie. Break something if you need to." I pat him reassuringly on the arm. "It's only for a few days. You'll be fine." I remember something else. "Oh, and he'll probably drop by with the minutes for the last H&S meeting… get them away from him and over to me as soon as possible. And wish me luck… that man actually expects me to get through the shift without shooting him." (14)

"Good luck, ma'am. And Captain Archer says that if he catches you here, he's going to throw you out the nearest airlock."

"Well, let's pray he doesn't catch me." I leave Rossie with the paperwork and head back to my confinement.

Captain Archer doesn't catch me, but guess who does. "Scarlett… and just when I thought we were communicating."

"Do you want reality to dissolve into unremitting chaos? I had to go give Rossie the paperwork before your friend and mine decides to do it himself."

"But you're on _my_ time. And my time says that you do armoury work, not engineering work." He smiles, and says the stupidest thing in the universe. "I'm sure Commander Tucker can handle a few simple forms on his own."

"Are you _crazy_? Are you _sadistic?_"

He blinks. "Not on a regular basis."

"Just when it comes to me."

A passing crewman gives us an odd look, but says nothing. It's enough to turn Malcolm red, however.

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Say things like that. With people around?"

"Hey." Now he's getting ridiculous. "I'm not the one who's sadistic." Unfortunately, the same crewman is on his way back. Malcolm gets even redder.

"I am _not_ sadistic. I merely think that someone like Commander Tucker…"

The crewman's eyes go wide.

"…is old enough to be able to write his own name."(15)

The crewman's fingers go limp, and the padd he's carrying drops to the floor. "Are you _insane_, sir? I heard that happened once. Headquarters was shut down for a week."

"Because he wrote his own _name_?" Malcolm's got this look that says he thinks we're both being overly dramatic.

"Well, actually, he was filing an AC-225 status report and crashed the entire system."(16) After all, the Boy's not _that_ talented… even he needs more than eighteen characters to crash an _entire_ system. "It's one of the things _most_ of us have learned to accept. Commander Tucker does not get along well with bureaucracy."

"Any idiot can see that," Not-Just-Any-Idiot says. "But surely…"

"I cannot comment any further.(17) It's simply a matter of fact that I do not allow Commander Tucker to – in any way, shape or form – fill out the paperwork. And if you wish to redress me for showing concern to a junior officer, then you may do so." With the crewman for an audience, I know two things. One: he's not going to yell at me for sparing Rossie, because he can't afford _his_ junior team-members to distrust him. Two: he's also not going to use any of his old methods of shutting me up. This gives me the advantage. "But I am not going to see Crewman Rostov faced with extra work on my behalf. Unfortunately, that work was of a time-sensitive nature, and thus needed to take priority over an inventory task, which has a more flexible deadline. However, Sir, you can rest assured that the duties you assign to me _will_ be accomplished on schedule, _provided_ I am not accosted by any unnecessary delays."

"Accosted?" He blinks madly. "How can you be accosted by a delay? I don't think you know what that word means."

"'Inconceivable.'" If he wants to quote _The Princess Bride_, then so can I. "'accost: to approach and stop somebody in order to speak, especially in an aggressive, insistent, or suggestive way'" I look pointedly at my accoster. "So if you will excuse me, Sir..."

"No. You will not leave until you have been dismissed." Some people just get so snotty when you prove them wrong. He waits for a few moments, then nods. "You may go."

"You may be a petty asshole." I hear his teeth grinding together as I say this, but my rights to freedom of speech are still protected, and with a witness there, he can't kill me.

"Don't you speak to me like that!" Unfortunately for him, he's already dismissed me, so he's yelling it at my back. "I am…"

I turn around and shake my finger at him. "Uh, uh. Same day, and H comes before R." I know he's trying to claim seniority, but we both got our Lieutenants promotions at the same time.

"I am still in charge here!"

I think about it. "Technically, no. Because by transferring me in, and qualifying me, you officially made me a member of the armoury crew. According to the seniority rules, I am the senior officer…"

"Only by ten letters!"

"… and would be quite justified in claiming that seniority and taking over. However," I step back to him and pat him lightly on the cheek, "you seem to be doing a marvellous job here. I wouldn't dream of getting in your way."

He leans in even closer, and growls in my ear. "You're pushing it, Scarlett. Really pushing it."

"I am merely stating that the rules and regulations permit…" I see his fingers twitch and decide that's enough. There's a technique to this. "You need a break. Why don't you and Commander Tucker go grab some coffee," I check my watch, it's the antique windup type that doesn't get affected by weird energy fields around a warp engine, "because it's about time for his break…" Malcolm turns almost puce at this point, and he seems to be watching something behind me.

"Can I go for walkies, too?" If the comment were from Malcolm, I'd be worried, but it's my Boy who says it. He sometimes says I run his life too much, but then he complains whenever I stop.

I turn and smile. It hasn't been a day and already I've missed him. "If you're good." I pat him on the shoulder; it's easier than trying to reach his head. "How's Rossie doing?"

"Okay. He seems a little nervous though." Commander Tucker frowns. "We may need to work with him a little more." His face brightens. "Hi, Mal."

I narrow my eyes. "Has he been feeding you sugar?"

"You know, that is one thing… it's been so nice. He keeps getting me coffee, and he brought down some donuts, too… you know the little ones with the powdered sugar…" He wrinkles his brow a little. "You don't bring me those."

"I know." There's a reason I don't bring him those. One of us is bad enough, but on that much sugar, he can be worse than me. I swear I once saw his eyes sparking.

"So, why don't you boys go get a cup of coffee or something?" I glance over at Malcolm who's looking a little stunned, then turn back to Commander Tucker. "I think he needs a break, he's been a little stressed today."

"Not yet." Malcolm suddenly grins, and there's an air of hysteria about it. "First, you're going to get back to that hard count."

"I thought…" Commander Tucker shuts up as I kick him in the ankle.(18)

"You thought what, Commander?" It's in his eyes, that manic look that says he's two seconds from stripping his uniform off and running through the halls, screaming.

"I thought you'd have her doing something a little more technical, given the level of her training and all." The Boy covers well. He even sounds sad and contrite.

"It's punishment duty," Malcolm says. He's even starting to hyperventilate now. "I just wonder what it is I did that requires punishment."

"I'll be fine." I pat Commander Tucker's shoulder again and give him a significant look. After all, if Malcolm finds out that I like counting things, he'll take the job away from me.

It's two hours before Malcolm returns.(19) By then I have all the little things counted and am starting on the medium ones.(20) He doesn't announce his presence, he just stands behind me, making odd noises, like he's trying to scrape something off the roof of his mouth. Finally, he can't stand it anymore.

"Why didn't you tell me that you usually do the Engineering inventories?"

I don't bother to turn around. "I didn't think it was relevant to the proceedings at hand."

"Has anyone ever told you that you are a very, very sick individual?"

"A doctor once. I think I had a fever and was throwing up a lot though. I'm fine now."

"Really." He doesn't sound convinced. "I have never, once, in my experience in any organisation met a person who _volunteered_ for inventory duty."

"Yes, you have."

"Besides you." He moves up beside me and looks me in the eye, blinking very slowly. "I have a feeling that you are quite insane."

I drop the padd on a nearby table and grab his arm and start walking.

"Where are we going?"

I don't answer. If he wants to call me crazy…

We stop at the door to my quarters, and I enter the code. He looks a little nervous, but decides it's better not to wait out in the hall for _more_ people to look at us strangely.

I go to my desk and pull out a piece of paper. _This_ is on paper, because there are times when you need a permanent record. I hand it to him, and watch as he reads it.

"_I_ am not insane. That certification attests to that fact." So many people used to call me crazy that I went to a psychiatrist and had myself tested. "Can I see yours?"

"I don't have one." He looks confused.

"Oh. So _you_ cannot actually prove your own sanity, but you are willing to question mine? Mister Reed, you are a scoundrel." I walk out and leave him standing there, still staring at the certificate.

Unfortunately, I walk straight into Captain Archer.

"I thought I assigned you to Armoury duties, Hess. I don't see Lieutenant Reed anywhere around here, and this _certainly_ doesn't look like a weapons storage facility."

"He's in there." I jerk my thumb back towards my door. "We were merely discussing my qualifications for armoury service."

The captain's eyebrows rise, but he says nothing.

"She can prove she's sane, Sir." Malcolm's voice is on the edge of indicating that he's not. "She actually has a psychiatric diagnosis, Sir."

Captain Archer grins. "I'd like a copy of that."

"No, Sir, I am afraid I cannot allow that. As an officer of the court, I must warn you that it is a legal document, and any attempts to alter it…"

"Oh, I don't want to alter it, Hess. I want to frame it. And then, one day, when you try to tell the world that you did something because you were crazy, and that you shouldn't be punished, _I'll_ be able to say that you're not."

And he still says he's not a lawyer. I knew there was a reason I _shouldn't_ get the stupid thing, but I was just so sick and tired of all the accusations, and Jeffries kept threatening to bounce me from the program. Now though, it's coming back to bite me with a grin that says 'gotcha!' My own private little Catch-22. If I tell him that circumstances can change, then I might be crazy, and he'd have grounds to get rid of me. But if I insist on backing up the point that I'm sane, then I can't use an insanity defence if I need to.(21)

"You are evil, Sir." There is no other word for it. Just evil.

"That's why they made me Captain, Hess."

He reaches over and lifts the certificate from Malcolm's unresponsive fingers. "Don't worry, I'll return the original as soon as I'm done."

"Sir, that is theft. If you persist in that action, I will have no choice but to press charges…"

"You gave it to Lieutenant Reed, and now Lieutenant Reed is giving it to me."

Malcolm says nothing, just stands there staring. Then slowly he nods.

"I didn't transfer _ownership_ to Lieutenant Reed; therefore, he had no right to give it to you. Not that there is any evidence of cooperation on the Lieutenant's part…" I shut up – there are some times you just don't argue with the captain, and he's giving me that look.

He hands me the paper. "Don't lose that, Lieutenant. Oh, and I don't suppose you could tell me the penalty for destroying evidence, could you?"

"Is that a threat, Sir?" I know it is. He's telling me that if I get rid of the damned thing, it could be used against me. Problem is, he's right, and it wouldn't do me any good, because there are other copies on file. I have to face it: I am not and never have been _non compos mentis_, and there is a limited likelihood of it in my future. On the other hand, it's been worth it, just to see Malcolm's face. I don't think I've ever seen someone look so floored in my life, and that includes the time when Captain Jeffries found out that my Dad's old Harvard buddy was Starfleet's senior JAG officer.

Captain Archer walks away, and as he rounds the corner, I hear him whistling, as though the tragic news of my sanity was something to be cheerful about. I sigh and turn back to Malcolm.

"Can I go now? There's an inventory back in the armoury, waiting for me to finish it."

"Okay." He doesn't seem inclined to argue much, anymore. He follows me back to the armoury, muttering, "She's not crazy… she's really not crazy. It's been proven." He stays like that for the rest of the day, occasionally pinching himself, or shaking his head violently. And I try to figure out what I'm going to do for tomorrow.

* * *

(1) He's seen it before though, so he knows that it's really me. 

(2) The commander told me all about that little incident. It was during his 'try to set Malcolm and Hess up phase,' and he was trying to convince me of how 'wonderful' Malcolm is. Fortunately, he's cooled off on that.

(3) Okay, given my double degrees I am far more highly educated than an engineer, but Commander Tucker doesn't hold it against me.

(4) After all, rumour is he _did_ have a sister. Surely he knows _something_ about women.

(5) Nicole is actually my _second_ name. Only he, Commander Tucker and I know my first. And the rest of my family of course. But they know better than to use it.

(6) Unlike Commander Tucker, who destroys paperwork by merely thinking of doing it.

(7) This is a nightmare, but I don't want to _think_ about what I'll go back to if I let the Boy try to do things on his own. Worse yet, he'll try to help me fix it.

(8) One day he's going to sign something himself, and nobody will believe it.

(9) I suspect this is the real reason behind the 'work with me' thing: Malcolm's afraid of the software.

(10) Not that they actually showed up on paper as 'out.' They were simply listed as 'temporarily sequestered to armoury.' I know where my stuff goes.

(11) The padd, not my head. If anyone's heads are going to roll…

(12) Well, there are other comments I could make, but my mother taught me never to say those things in sensitive company.

(13) I would, but then I'd have to find it, and count it.

(14) Hey, there was one long, boring shift that I couldn't get through without shooting Commander Tucker. Rossie had to take over entirely then.

(15) Like I said though, he'd be accused of forgery.

(16) The irony is that it probably wouldn't have taken so long to fix, if they'd let him be the one to fix it.

(17) After all, my qualifications are not in the area of human psychology. Otherwise I'd suggest it was a deep subconscious desire to completely screw up a bureaucratic process beyond the point of repair.

(18) No, I don't ever try to hurt the Boy. I also happen to know that his boots are as good as mine, so nothing is likely to happen.

(19) This is due to an odd temporal distortion that occurs every time two supervisors take a break together. Fifteen minutes in their timespace becomes two hours in normal time. It must be a gravitational thing, because more supervisors only makes the distortion worse.

(20) Most people save the small stuff for last, but it works better when you do it first. That way, when you're really tired, you only have to look at a few big things, and not two thousand tiny little ones.

(21) Not that I'm expecting to need to, but you should always be prepared for every contingency.


	2. Day Two

**Disclaimer**: I own neither Enterprise, nor it's characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.

**Author's** **note**: Thanks as always to my great beta readers. And everybody who keeps reading and reviewing and making this so worthwhile (it's fun on its own, but it's nice to share with others).

**Narrator's note**: Apologies to all vultures. I realise the comparision is not a nice one.

**DAY 2**

I wake to a vulture staring down at me. I blink, and it resolves into Malcolm, so I blink again, hoping to get the vulture back. Unfortunately, it doesn't work.

"I can't have slept in, Malcolm. I hardly ever sleep." I roll over to face the wall. That is not something you want to see when you wake up.

"You did, Scarlett. You're an hour late. This surprises me, because you were so prompt yesterday. Now, I know it's hard to adjust to a change in schedule. However…"

"Has anyone ever told you it's not nice to break in to a lady's bedroom? What if I slept naked?" I never do, of course. I grew up with five brothers, and you never knew who was going to invade (1) or when there would be an emergency fire drill. Or the real thing, for that matter.

He coughs for a moment. "I tried to use the doorbell and the comm, but they seem to be turned off. That is against regulations…"

"The shipwide alarm still works. And Commander Tucker knows how to get a hold of me in an emergency." I may not sleep a lot, but I like to make sure what little I get is undisturbed.

"I believe he said 'by the shoulders.'" Malcolm reaches down and grabs mine, pulling me out of bed. "Rise and shine, Scarlett."

"You're saying that just to piss me off." Did I mention that I hate mornings? And morning people are even worse. I stand for a moment, trying to regain my sensibility. But that's not quick enough for Mister Sunshine.

"Let's go." He picks me up in his arms and carries me into the bathroom, setting me down in the shower. Then he sets the spray to 'hard' and turns the water on cold. I'm wearing fleece, which soaks up the water like crazy, and I start to shiver. I turn the water off, and glare at him.

He smirks back, so I do the only intelligent thing left. I give him a great big hug.

"Scarlett, I…"

I pull him even closer, and like the lovely stuff it is, the fleece compresses, leaving the water only one place to go – especially when I wring a sleeve out down his collar.

He gasps, pulling away. "That is…"

"You mean I really do send chills down your spine?" I smile back at him and start undoing the buttons on my pyjama top. I barely get the first one out of the hole before he leaves the room. As soon as he does, I quickly strip the pyjamas off and wrap myself in a towel. Then I go into the main room and pull a uniform out of the closet.

He stares at me, and seems to have difficulty swallowing.

"Come off it, Malcolm. This isn't the first time you've seen me like this." Then he was trying to blackmail me, though. "And you should have thought of it _before_ you dumped me into a cold shower." I go back to the bathroom and change. He's probably expecting it to take longer, because his jaw drops when I emerge in less than a minute, fully dressed.

"Oh… isn't that uncomfortable?" I run my eyes over the front of him. He looks down and blushes.

"Scarlett…"

"That's okay, darling. I'm sure the other boys and girls won't make nasty comments about your wet uniform." Not to his face, that is. But this ought to keep the mill going for days. And this one won't hurt _my_ reputation, because people are going to be wondering just what it was I did to him. (2)

He comes up behind me and clamps both hands on my shoulders, growling into my ear. "This is not a good start to your second day with me, Scarlett."

"Well, I'm not the one who decided to throw an impromptu wet t-shirt contest." I break free and turn around to glare at him.

His entire body tenses, and his hands start shaking. "You were over an hour late. I was waking you up."

"And I should believe this, because…"

"Because cold showers are rarely considered erotic. And despite the fact that I cannot _prove_ my sanity, I doubt I am so far gone as to consider spending my precious spare time with someone so damned bloody annoying as you."

I don't care if I'm supposed to be punished, I am not working with him. I go back into the bathroom and lock the door. I have never been so insulted in my life, and I'm not sure why.

One thing that people don't realise is that the com wiring runs right through the bathrooms. I tap into it and call someone who cares.

In less than five minutes, I hear him through the door.

"Just what the hell did you do to her?" He doesn't usually yell like that, unless he's really mad.

"Commander, this is hardly…" Despite what people think, there isn't a lot of soundproofing between the bathroom and the main quarters.

"Malcolm…" I hear a thud against the wall, probably from Malcolm backing hurriedly into it. There aren't many people who are willing to take on the Boy when he's truly angry. "Why did my oldest, and one of my dearest friends comm me, in tears, saying that she really, really needed to talk? It hasn't even been two days. Two _days_, Malcolm. Now, when I turn one of my most trusted people over to you, I _expect_ to get them back in the same condition."

"She was late. Maybe I just should have written a reprimand."

"Maybe you should have." Then he says what would shock anybody but me. "I would have."

"You would not…"

"Yes, I would. As a matter of fact, I have. Ask Captain Archer. At the same time, she makes up for it with double-shifts and emergency fill-ins. But that is not what we are discussing here. What we are discussing is what the hell you did to make her cry."

"I hardly think…"

"Hess, honey, can you come out here for a moment?"

I don't want to. Malcolm's there, but then again, so is my Boy. And if things degrade into violence, he's going to need someone to protect him. I open the door and carefully step out, making sure I stay away from Malcolm.

"Okay, now what did he say to you?"

I shake my head. There are just some things I can't put into words. Especially when I don't know what the words are in the first place. All I know is that when the marginal people don't want you hanging around, then you're really on your own. That's not something you're used to when you come from a big family. Even if I had no friends, my brothers would always let me hang out with them. And I'm not used to crying either.

He lays the back of his hand against my forehead. "Okay." Suddenly he frowns. "Are you feeling okay?"

I shake my head again. If I had been feeling okay, I wouldn't have called him.

"Commander…"

The look Commander Tucker gives Malcolm tells him to stay out of it, or risk dismemberment. "I'm going to get you in to Dr. Phlox." He says to me, "You're not looking so good, and I think you're running a fever."

"You mean to tell me she's actually _sick_?" Malcolm sounds shocked. Like he should talk – he spends more time on sick-call than anyone else.(3)

Commander Tucker says nothing, just hustles me out into the hall and down to sickbay. On the way I tell him what Malcolm did to me. At least, the shower part.

When we get there, Dr. Phlox takes one look and comes rushing over.

"What happened?" He takes out his scanner and starts checking over Commander Tucker.

"It's not me, it's Hess." He shouldn't be so mad, though, it's an honest mistake.

"Oh." The doctor looks puzzled for a moment, then his eyes focus on me. "Oh! Lieutenant. I'm sorry, I didn't recognise you without the hair. What seems to be the problem?"

"I don't feel good." I realise that I'm pouting, at which point I _know_ that I'm sick.

"Well, let's just have a look." Phlox takes me over to one of the diagnostic beds, and starts running tests. "It appears to be a mild viral infection, do you have any idea where you might have picked it up?"

I shake my head. "I spent all day yesterday doing inventory in the armoury."

"Oh, dear." Phlox fusses over some things again. "This wouldn't be the first time. It's possible that you came in contact with it from something you handled during your inventory. Lieutenant Reed has contracted illnesses in the same way. Tenacious things, viruses. Some of them can lie dormant for years, just waiting for the right conditions. It's one of the great risks of archaeology. You never quite know _what_ you're going to pick up." He injects me with something. "Now, that should help with your fever. But you may still be a little sleepy, so I'm going to take you off duty for the rest of the day. I'd also like you to limit your contact with other people, so we can try to limit the spread of this."

"Okay." I don't mention the fact that I've already breathed all over Malcolm. With any luck, his delicate constitution will make him worse than I am.

Phlox concludes by giving Commander Tucker a reminder to wash his hands after handling me, to prevent the spread of the germs. Then the Boy takes me back to bed and gets me tucked in.

"I'll take care of Malcolm and Captain Archer. They can't do anything if you're sick, _especially_ since you got sick working in the armoury." He fusses with the pillow until I'm comfortable, and fixes me a hot-chocolate. (4) "You just concentrate on getting better, okay?"

"Okay. If you want, I can do the paperwork while I'm here. It'll give me something to do, and I'm sure Rossie won't mind."

He smiles. "That's okay. I'll give him a hand."

"No! Really." I try to hide the fact that I'm now panicking. "You know how bored I get when I've got nothing to do. And since I'm not going to be allowed to see anybody…"

"All right, then." He smiles some more. When it comes down to it, he can't deny me anything. "But I don't want you working too hard on it. I want you to get better."

"Okay." He's such a sweetie. It's nice knowing that there are some people you can count on.

**

* * *

(Narrator's note: The following is gleaned from third party sources. No liability shall fall to the reporter for the dissemination of such information):**

"Tell me. Are you just naturally a rotten bastard, or do you work on it?"

Malcolm jumps and spins around, to find himself looking into the stony face of Commander Tucker. "I…"

"She's sick. You might have taken that into consideration before you did that to her. Not to mention that it was _your_ armoury that made her sick."

"How was I supposed to know she was sick?" Malcolm protests. "I'm not a doctor."

Commander Tucker pretends to think about it for a moment. "A person who almost never sleeps, sleeps in. Hmn. That might be a clue that something is wrong."

"You were the one who said…"

"I said that's what _I_ would do. Malcolm, you and Hess have an entirely different relationship."

"We don't have a relationship." Then Malcolm proves that (a) he doesn't understand the relationship between myself and Commander Tucker, and (b) he's suicidal. "I'd rather have a relationship with a shark."

Several people run for cover as Commander Tucker snaps the padd in his hands in half. "What was that?" People always underestimate the Boy's strength. I mean, he _looks_ kind of skinny and all, but they don't realise how much heavy lifting goes on in Engineering. And when he's angry, he's even stronger.

"What did you just say?" Commander Tucker's voice is very calm and even, which means that he's two seconds away from splattering Malcolm's brains all over the bulkhead.

Fortunately for Malcolm, He-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed stops by to ask a question, and quickly recognises the homicidal glint in Commander Tucker's eye.

"Commander." Captain Archer places a hand on Commander Tucker's shoulder and eases him backwards. "What's going on here?"

"This son-of-a-bitch," Commander Tucker uses a broken piece of padd to point at Lieutenant Reed, "has crossed the line. I do not appreciate it when someone thinks that he can abuse my friends and coworkers simply because that someone has an inferiority complex and has decided to go on a power trip."

"What happened?" Captain Archer speaks very slowly, so that there's no question whether or not Commander Tucker will understand.

"Lieutenant Hess is sick, from something she picked up around here, and _this_ bastard's only response was to stick her in ice-water."

"I didn't know she was sick. I thought she was being Hess."

Commander Tucker lunges towards Malcolm, and the only thing that stops him from a murder charge is Captain Archer's arm thudding into his chest.

"Now," Captain Archer says, "Is she really sick? This has been verified by a doctor?"

"Ask Phlox." Commander Tucker still hasn't taken his eyes away from his intended target. "He's got her on sick-call for the rest of the day."

"Okay. Now let's try something new, shall we? Let's try handling this like adults, instead of schoolchildren." Captain Archer walks Commander Tucker a few steps backwards, giving Malcolm some space to breathe. "What _precisely_ happened?"

This, of course, sticks Malcolm in a quandary. If he says that he went to get me, rather than write me up, he's going to be in trouble with Captain Archer. If he does nothing, he comes across looking like an evil, lecherous jerk. (5) Suddenly, he thinks of something.

"Wait a second… if Hess is sick, it _can't_ be from something she picked up here. Viruses need time to incubate. Furthermore, if she was running a fever, ice-water is an acceptable response."

"You didn't know she was sick when you tossed her into it," Commander Tucker growls.

Then Malcolm proves I've spent way too much time hanging out with him. "Do you know that for certain? I believe that qualifies as 'determining the state and depth of another person's knowledge?' That's hardly evidentiary." (6)

"You…"

"Quiet," Captain Archer thumps Commander Tucker lightly again, to get the message across. "Lieutenant Reed. Next time Lieutenant Hess is sick, write a report, don't try to solve it yourself. Trip. The next time those two get up to something, don't get involved. You only make yourself look like an idiot." He looks down at the pieces of padd in Commander Tucker's hands. "And stop doing that, or I'll write you up for destruction of Starfleet property."

"We were hardly up to something," Malcolm mutters. "The last thing I'd want to do…"

Which is how Captain Archer breaks a knuckle, hitting Commander Tucker in the head.(7) (8)

I'm, of course, absolutely oblivious to all these facts. I'm nicely tucked away in my bed, with my cat and my rabbit tucked up beside me, saving the universe from Commander Tucker's paperwork, when the doorbell rings.

"Yes?" I sound kind of pitiful, but I'm sick, so it's okay.

"Can I come in?" It sounds like Malcolm, but the voice is a little muffled.

"I suppose. If you must." After all, as he once informed me, as Chief of Security he's allowed everywhere.

He staggers in with a huge pile of stuff in his arms. "I heard how sick you were, and thought maybe I could help." Evil Thing and Igor take off when they notice who it is. Animals are smart.

"By doing what? Throwing me in the shower again?"

"No… I'm sorry about that. Believe me, I'm sorry." He sets his load down on the floor. "I just thought I'd bring you some of the things I find helpful when I'm feeling sick."

I start to feel a sudden case of tachycardia coming on. I mean, I never thought that Malcolm would be the man to make my heart race, but I'm starting to panic.

"Let's see… Some extra blankets are always nice." He throws a couple of heavy blankets on top of me; they feel like they were constructed out of lead. He carefully arranges them so I'm well tucked in. In fact, I feel a little bit like Egyptian royalty being given those final touches. (9)

"A hot-water bottle…" He disappears into the bathroom with something and returns a couple of seconds later. "Oh, but I forgot." He pulls out a pair of what I can only pray are clean woollen socks. (10) He pulls these onto my feet, then tucks the hot-water bottle up against them.

"Hmm… Tissues." He hands me an extra large box, or he would, if my arms could move. Instead, he just places it beside me. "Something to throw them in…" a wastebasket goes on the floor beside my head. "Some reading material…" He places a couple of padds on top of the blankets. "My favourites: Tacticus, Sun Tzu and Sartre… oh, yes and _Finnegan's Wake_, I thought you might enjoy that."

"Hoshi's more the one for made-up languages…"

"Some extra pillows, just to make sure you're comfortable…" He tucks these around me, wedging me in even tighter.

"Malcolm. I'm so comfortable, I can't breathe." If he piles any more stuff on me, I'm going to disappear.

"Oh dear, that's right. You're running a fever." He disappears into the bathroom again, and comes out with a facecloth. He lays it on my forehead, meaning that my toes are now cooking and my head is freezing.

"Malcolm…"

He ignores me. "Some hot tea – made properly of course, none of your American butchery – and some ice-water in case you get thirsty." He sets up a small folding table beside my bed and places a thermos bottle and a carafe on it. "And I had Chef make you up some chicken soup…"

I'm amazed he managed to carry all this stuff. Like Commander Tucker, he must be stronger than he looks. (11) He opens a second thermos bottle and pours me a cup of the soup. I have to admit, it smells good. Chef really is amazing. But even if I were hungry, I couldn't eat it.

"Malcolm. I can't move."

"Oh darling, I am so sorry." He sits down on the side of the bed and pulls out a spoon.

"'_Darling?!_" When did he start calling me 'darling?' _Why_ did he start calling me 'darling?' Whatever happened to 'menace' and 'horror' and 'irresponsible threat to the well-being of society?'

He blinks rapidly, looking innocent.(12) "Did I overstep? It's just that you called me that this morning, so I figured it was simply an expression."

"It's that Tuckeritis again," I mutter. "You're far too highly susceptible."

"Oh, dear," he reaches over and adjusts the cloth on my head. "You're babbling. That's not a good sign." He then dips the spoon into the soup, then holds it to my lips. "Have some soup, I'm sure it will make you feel better."

I wouldn't, but I _am_ kind of feeling out of sorts, and the soup _does_ smell good. I sip it, and he beams.

"That's good. You have to keep your strength up. I know it's hard when you're stuck in bed and you're all alone, and nobody seems to care for you…" He pats my shoulder. "But that's okay, because I'm here now. And we'll make sure you get all better."

I start to sniffle. Malcolm quickly puts down the soup and grabs a tissue, holding it in front of my nose.

"Blow."

I do, and he wipes my nose like I was a little kid, then drops the tissue in the wastebasket.

"You poor, poor thing. Well, I'm going to take good care of you."

That's what scares me. At this rate, he'll smother me to death before I get a chance to get better.

Suddenly, I can't help it. I burst into tears again. I feel so helpless, and the universe has gone crazy again. And this… this… _thing_ beside me won't go away. He's like the demented nursemaid from hell.

"Ohhh. Don't cry. Don't cry, Scarlett. It will all be better soon." He grabs another tissue and starts drying my tears, using little patting motions all over my cheeks.

This only makes me cry harder. I'm scared that I won't get better soon, and I'll be stuck here forever with Sympathetic Malcolm, which is very, very scary, and not at all like Pathetic Malcolm whom I thought I knew. What's worse is that this is the second time in a single day that he's made me cry. _Nobody's_ ever done that to me before. I hate this man. I hate this man with every fibre of my being. He's just so damned _nice._

"Oh, Scarlett, I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

"Go away." Preferably, a long way away, like on another starship.

"You're just feeling cranky because you're sick. You don't really mean that."

"Yes, I do."

He looks hurt. "I'm only trying to make you feel better."

I sigh. He's obviously been picking up tricks from the Boy, because Porthos couldn't give me a better set of puppy-dog eyes. And I can kind of see that in a sick and twisted universe that he might actually think that he's helping. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I understand." This time he pats where my knee might be, though it's hard to tell under all these blankets. "I just can't imagine where you could have picked this up, though."

"From you, and your infected inventory." As if it weren't obvious.

"Scarlett… viruses need time to incubate…"

"Ten to twelve hours for the common rhinovirus." I know this, because our family game used to be 'who brought home what?'

"Surely it's…"

"No. Symptoms can begin to appear within ten to twelve hours of first contact. This is all your fault, Malcolm." Suddenly I realise that might have been the wrong thing to say.

"Oh, Scarlett, I'm sorry. You're right: this is all my fault." He starts adjusting all the pillows again. "Let me try to help make it better."

Okay, time for a new tactic. "My mommy used to read stories to me." They weren't as interesting as the ones my father would tell, though. He'd debate case-law with me to take my mind off of feeling bad. By the time I was twelve, I had all of the constitutional amendments down pat.

The tactic fails. "All right. What would you like me to read?" He sorts his way through the padds. "I know, how about some Melville? _Moby Dick_, I used to read this all the time."

Well, it works on one point. I'm asleep after two pages. But somehow, I don't think he notices.

* * *

(1) Sometimes through the window, which can lead to nasty, unexpected chills. 

(2) And nobody would believe it if I told them what really happened. I'm supposed to be more technical than that.

(3) Well, except maybe for me and Commander Tucker. But those are injuries, they don't count.

(4) Hey, it's not my fault that most people didn't think to bring along their own espresso makers with milk steamer attachment. Just because we're in deep space doesn't mean that we can't enjoy the comforts of home.

(5) Which would, of course, only be an improvement to his reputation.

(6) Not precisely the language I would have used, but the sentiment is there.

(7) I mean, to be fair, Commander Tucker was preparing to throttle Lieutenant Reed, so it's just a matter of things moving up the chain of command.

(8 )With his skull, it was probably the least painful place the captain could have hit him. For Commander Tucker at least.

(9) Though, if he tries for the organ removal, it ain't mine that will be coming out.

(10) Though, honestly, this is something I would have to worry about more with Commander Tucker. Malcolm is so anal he probably washes his things the second he takes them off.

(11) Of course, given that he looks like he'd fall apart in a light breeze, this wouldn't be difficult.

(12) Which automatically makes me even more suspicious.


	3. Day Three Part One

**Disclaimer**: I do not own the characters from _Enterprise_ (or any other affiliations thereof), and they are used without permission. The work that follows is merely a work of imagination and in no way related to the works of Paramount. I have no affiliations with Paramount Entertainment. Financial recompense is neither received nor sought for this work. This work is purely for entertainment purposes.

**Author's note**: Yes, I know it's short… but there is more to come. (You think she's getting off _this_ easy?) I am a feedback junkie (is there a support group for that?) so reviews are greatly welcomed.

**Day Three**:

When I wake, Malcolm is (blissfully) gone. I wriggle my way free and make a break for the bathroom, locking the door just in case he decides to come back. After a hot shower, I get dressed and grab Rossie's paperwork and head first to Engineering. Rossie's not there, so I leave the paperwork on the desk and head off again.

I find the object of my non-affection down in the armoury, like the good little lieutenant he is. I march up to him and hand him his socks, much to onlookers' astonishment. (1)

"Well washed, I hope."

I open my mouth to reply and realise something horrible.

"What? No witty comeback?" Malcolm's not as quick on the uptake as he would like to think he is.

I try again, just in case it was… well, I don't know what, but I'm in deep denial. Unfortunately, I get the same result. Nothing.

"Have you lost your voice? Lieutenant, you shouldn't be here. Not if you've got laryngitis. Good lord, do you realise how many people you could make sick?"

_Some of you don't need help_. I'd say it to his face, but I can't.

"Now, you get yourself straight back to bed. There's no sense in you wandering around in your condition." He turns me around and gives me a gentle push towards the door. I'm not about to argue, because at least it keeps me away from him. (2)

Out in the hall, things go from looking up to straight down the long black tunnel that leads into the recyclers.

"Lieutenant…" Our joined-at-the-hip pair of engineers, Harvey Bryson and David Higgens just happen to be walking past. Or as Commander Tucker refers to them: 'the only two people I've ever had the urge to slowly torture to death.' (3) I ignore them, because (a) I am physically incapable of saying what I would like to, and (b) even if I could say it, they'd probably take it as an invitation. (4)

"I guess she's just dumbstruck," Bryson snickers, when I don't answer.

"Well, I'll agree on the dumb." Did I mention that Higgens can be incredibly stupid? Maybe he thinks that having a highly connected parent buys immunity. (5)

A phaser bolt lashes out of the Armoury and strikes Higgens dead on. "You're right, Stewart," Malcolm's voice carries easily to all concerned. "There is a problem with the safety on this one."

Unfortunately, it was only set to 'stun.' Either that, or Higgens is too thick-headed to realise that 'kill' means you're supposed to die. Either way, he's still breathing and the matter is none of my concern. I mean, it was clearly an accident, even if the timing is curious. Statistically it _could_ happen. (6)

I get back to my room without any more major incidents. I do make a minor stop along the way to pick up some gear and once I'm back, I begin my work modifying the locks. A simple code change wouldn't be enough: as chief of security, Malcolm has an override to everything. Instead, I'm adding a few locks, and an alarm for good measure. There is no way I'm going to be ambushed by a nutcase nanny again.

Working on something more suited to my training lifts my spirits a little. I decide to go for a real challenge and start designing a security system that would out-fox even the expert. No, I don't mean Mr. Smarty Reed with all his little overrides and 'I am in charge of security around here.' I mean someone who _really_ makes locking things up a challenge. I'm going to come up with one that would beat the Boy. (7)

Of course, this means getting more supplies – including a few notices about industrial hazards. After all, in deference to other people, I'm going to have to _warn_ them that opening my door could lead to severe electric shock. I'm just not saying _how_. (8) I also have to keep in mind that I'm not the only person here – Igor and Evil Thing live here too, so all the dangers have to be on the _outside_.

Before I can finish, however, I'm ambushed by the guy this was originally meant to keep out.

"Get into bed!" Malcolm bounds through the door and jabs a finger towards my bunk.

I pick up a padd and scribble him a note. _No wonder you have no luck with women._

His expression darkens considerably. (9) "Captain Archer says if you're healthy enough to be fooling around with engineering something, you're healthy enough to report for duty."

I wave the padd in the air, reminding him of my current limitations.

"Believe me, I mentioned that, and his reply was, 'It should be peaceful for you, then.'"

I scribble another note. _Phlox?_

"Unless you're still contagious, it's unlikely that there's anything he can do." Malcolm actually looks worried. "_Are_ you still contagious? Because I might be susceptible."

This confuses me for a moment, then I realise what he's saying. (10) If _he_ gets sick, then I _can't_ go on duty in the armoury, because that would create the incredibly awkward situation of ensigns giving orders to a lieutenant, which is not only against the rules, it's unfair. (11)

_I could breathe on you and we could find out,_ I write.

"Are you _insane?_" He pauses for a moment, clearly remembering our conversation from the other day. "Sorry, sorry… forget I said that. You're just evil and malicious." He takes a couple of steps backwards though, as if that would be enough to protect him from something airborne.

I put on my best 'insulted' face. _I was only trying to help you._

"Making me sick is 'helping.'" He shakes his head. "Remind me to ask you to explain the logic on that some day."

_Well, since you don't…_

"Not today." He doesn't even let me finish with my note. "I already have a headache."

_Maybe you're the one who belongs in bed. Maybe you're already sick_. Actually, the correct word is 'always' instead of 'already,' but there's an art to insulting people.

"Now that you mention it…" He pales on cue, something that is supposed to be physiologically impossible. On the other hand, whoever came up with that rule didn't take into account somebody as psychosomatically suggestive (12) as Malcolm can be.

_You get straight to your quarters and you call Dr. Phlox._ I spin him around and give him a push towards the door. This is just too easy.

* * *

(1) And, this being a workplace, great curiosity. 

(2) Especially after I change the locks.

(3) Unfortunately, I can't say that. I've had that urge about dozens of people, especially those that hurt animals. Commander Tucker is just too nice.

(4) The reason _they_ recognise me is that they spend too much time staring at parts of my anatomy other than my head and face. I'd kill them, but it's far easier to stand back and let them make themselves look like fools.

(5) Regrettably, it does, which is why Commander Tucker and I simply amuse ourselves thinking of 'accidents' the two of them could encounter.

(6) I mean _statistically_ Captain Archer could start tap-dancing and singing show-tunes, too. Admittedly the odds are somewhere around infinity-to-one, but it _could_ happen.

(7) Not that I have to worry about him breaking in. He only does if it's a real emergency, or he needs to work out a new strategy on my game system.

(8) This is actually nothing new… my father used to insist on it for 'liability purposes.'

(9) Which is quite the accomplishment when you consider he didn't have a good one to start. I mean, he complains about his parents, but I'm not sure even a mother could love a mug like that.

(10) While this may not be the implication he's thinking of, it's the best meaning for me.

(11) Though it's difficult to say whom it's more unfair to: junior officers seem to get a lot of malicious pleasure out of creating nasty jobs every time the positions get reversed. This is why demoted people rarely return to their old regiments.

(12) Or maybe just hypochondriacal


	4. Day Three Part Two

**Disclaimer**: I do not own _Enterprise_ or its characters, I make no money from this.

**Author's Note**: Thank you to my wonderful betas, gaianarchy, silvershadowfire and kate98. They assure me that this is hilarious.

**Day Three, Part Two**:

I should listen to myself. 'Too easy' is never a good thing. There's always something waiting to get you.

"Lieutenant Hess." Since I'm kneeling on the ground,(1) I have to look up further than usual. Unlike Malcolm, Captain Archer is very good at looming. "What do you think you are doing?"

Before I can grab my padd and scribble an answer, he continues. "Unless you are incapacitated, I _expect_ you to be on duty in the Armoury."

_But…_ I forget about writing and mouth the word instead.

"Yes, 'but.' Your favourite term. There's always a 'but.' What is it this time? Malcolm's sick, so therefore you _can't_ report to the armoury, because you would be the ranking officer and that would create an imbalance of power?"

I blink. I can't help it. Even the Boy can't hold a poker face against this man. (2)

"You think I didn't consider this possibility? Or the fact that you might arrange for Malcolm to have an 'accident?'"

No, and even more frustrating, _I_ didn't consider the possibility of Malcolm having an accident. Not only did Captain Archer outthink me, there's the serious possibility that I'm getting soft-hearted in all the wrong circumstances.

"Given that your biggest problem right now seems to be your lack of speech… let's just say that in your new capacity, that shouldn't be a problem." He smiles, that smile of his that says not only does he hold the better hand, but you're holding the wrong type of cards.

I sigh and begin packing everything up. This whole nightmare _started_ when Captain Archer and I spent an extended amount of time together, and somehow I think that's right back where it's going.

"There will, of course, be some changes to your job description. For example, you _will_ get coffee."

Somehow, I don't think he means I'll be provided with it, either. I wonder if I can arrange for an accident for _myself_, somewhere in the next two minutes. This is _worse_ than Malcolm – Malcolm I could at least confuse.

He's so busy paying attention to me that he fails to notice that he has a dangling shoelace. As Commander Tucker can tell you, there are few things in the world that Evil Thing finds more attractive than shoelaces. By the time I'm ready to go, he's completely untied Captain Archer's and is busy in the department of fraying them. When it comes to chewing, there are few creatures more serious.

We barely get a few steps down the hallway before Captain Archer trips. "Damnit!" He looks down at his boot and at the damaged lace. "You arranged for that on purpose, Hess."

_He's a cat, sir. You don't arrange for cats to do anything._ I hold the padd up so he can see it while his hands are busy.

"Well, he's about two seconds from the airlock…" Captain Archer begins hopping around on one foot, trying to fix his soggy laces.

Fortunately, the Boy happens to be walking by and hears the captain's statement. "Who?"

"Her damned cat," the captain answers.

"Jon!" Commander Tucker is so shocked that he forgets any kind of formality, despite the fact that he's on duty. "You wouldn't _dare_!" Commander Tucker is the one who actually rescued Evil Thing in the first place. "If… If… If you touch my cat, I'm going to forget that we were ever friends, and… and… and… I'll kill you." And now, the cat is out of the bag, so to speak.

"_Your_ cat?" Captain Archer waves his shoelaces at Commander Tucker. "_You're_ responsible for this?"

"Well, if you didn't have loose shoelaces, there would be nothing to be responsible _for_. And the way you let your _dog_ wander all over the place… All Evil Thing does is chew stuff, which is completely understandable when you consider everything that's happened to him. You are a cruel, nasty person, Jonathan Archer. When T'Pol and Phlox find out your true feelings towards other species…(3)"

Captain Archer smacks Commander Tucker in the side of the head. "Stop that. You're getting hysterical." He scowls. "It was just a stupid…"

"Damn right, it was stupid! How can you even _think_ that way, Jon?" Commander Tucker doesn't calm down any; in fact now he's close to tears. "Nobody ever said you were hysterical when _you_ spent all night in sickbay looking after Porthos.(4)"

Captain Archer bites back some swearing. "I had no idea you were that emotionally attached. Anyway, one would _assume_ that _she,_" he points at me, "is the one responsible for that creature."

"For logistical reasons, Hess maintains custody." Commander Tucker concedes. "But that doesn't matter. You shouldn't _say_ things like that about helpless little creatures." Despite the fact that Evil Thing weighs twenty pounds and years of chewing on things have given him a set of teeth that should never be messed with, Commander Tucker persists in thinking he's the same tiny fluffball he rescued from a highway seven years ago.(5) (6)

"Okay, fine. I'm sorry." Captain Archer doesn't look sorry, but even he knows better than to argue with Commander Tucker in one of these moods. He does however look disgusted, possibly because his best friend has just turned out to be a cat person. "Don't you have something you're supposed to be doing? In _Engineering_?"

Commander Tucker takes the hint and leaves. Captain Archer turns back to me. "Let's go, Lieutenant."

I do, mostly because I haven't seen him that mad since he found out that Sub-Commander T'Pol was assigned as an 'observer.' It only took him about a year to get over that. I figure Commander Tucker is going to have to be very nice to Porthos for the next while to overcome this little revelation.

I get a revelation of my own, because I never knew there were dungeons on the ship. It's not cavernous or in a cold wet sub-sub-sub-basement, but rather it's small and made smaller by the rack upon rack of data-storage media, all the back-ups of all the essential information on the main computer.

"This is a disaster," the captain announces. "I want to see it reorganised and cleaned up… and that will be _before_ lunch. Afterwards, there is some correspondence I need you to complete for me – and don't bother fooling around with it, because I fully intend to check – and some routine files that need going over. And since I hear you're such a magician with scheduling, you can work on the next few weeks' command support schedules." And with that, he leaves me.

The bastard. Up until the last item I was thinking I'd gotten off easy, after all, paperwork is my forte, but scheduling is everybody's worst nightmare. It's not just the software, scheduling has been a nightmare since someone first got the idea of formally organising people and time. Oh, it _sounds_ like it should be fairly straightforward: You have so many people, so many hours to fill… how hard can it be?

Let's see: So-in-so can't work with Whatshername because they get along too well and are liable to sneak off into some dark corner for some serious face to face(7) encounters. This-guy can't work with That-guy because they hate each other and require a referee at all times. Someone else can't handle certain parts of the job or can only work at such-and-such a time. Oh, and let's not forget the need to have somebody 'on-call' in case of the ever popular 'I've broken my (leg/arm/nose(8)/finger(9)/skin/heart) and can't make it in today.' The reason I'm so good at Engineering's schedules is that I _know_ everybody and have all that worked out. There have to be a million and a half pits that Captain Archer is waiting for me to fall into. And when I do, he'll be the guy looking down and saying 'Didn't you see that?'

Nope, I'm not going to fall _that_ easily. What I _do_ know is that captains (or department managers) rarely spend their time fussing out the schedules if there's someone they can delegate it to, usually the second-in-command. Now, I seriously doubt T'Pol is going to give me a hand with these; she's probably been told in no uncertain terms to follow the equation 'Help for Hess equals diddly-squat'. I also happen to know that she doesn't like me so will probably be quite happy to follow that logic.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant." She's got that look that says she's going to be pure Vulcan about this and no amount of tears, begging or bribes are going to work. "I was informed that the task had been assigned to you, and that you, alone, were to do it." She reads the line of text I send back and blinks. "I do believe that was uncalled for, Lieutenant. This has nothing to do with my personal opinions about you. Captain Archer explicitly stated…"

Yadda, yadda, yadda. That's what I hate about that man: he's always thinking ahead. Captains aren't supposed to do that; they're supposed to captain and let their lower-ranking officers do the thinking for them.

When she's done her spiel, I turn the comm off, and think. I need that information if I'm going to have any shot at pulling this off without setting myself up for the mob-with-torches treatment.

Suddenly I realise where I can obtain it. There is one person on this ship linked into every grapevine and non-official data source going. I look around to make sure no one is watching(10), and comm him.

"You know you're not supposed to be talking to me." The Boy looks around and shifts so his body blocks the entire screen from anyone around him. He keeps his voice low, something he seems to think is conspiratorial.(11)

_I'm not talking_. I type.

He rolls his eyes. "Hess… you know what I mean."

I glare at him, hoping he's capable of paying attention in his highly sugared state. From the looks of Commander Tucker's uniform, Rossie hasn't made the connection between powdered doughnuts and insanity.(12)

_Captain Archer's got me doing schedules for the bridge crew and the rest of Command Support._ I don't bother with an intro. I haven't got a lot of time.

"Oh dear…" He wrinkles his brow. "Why did you call me?"

_I need to know everything about everybody._

"Oh." He shrugs, like it's nothing. "Check my files under 'Personal Logs' then 'Secure' and you'll find a series of files with an 'eae' extension. You'll want CC and CS." Apparently, it is nothing.

He signs off and I start following the instructions, breaking a few passwords along the way. I'm curious about the 'eae' extension, because I've never heard of a program that assigns it.

Then I realise. Since I can't groan, I don't, but I do bang my head against the table a couple of times. E.A.E. Everything About Everybody. I don't even want to know the amount of work it took to modify the main program so that it would recognise .eae as a valid extension. It just goes to show how seriously the Boy takes his gossip.

I take a look at the time and realise that I'm going to have to hurry if I'm going to sort this 'disaster' out before lunch. I figure out my filing system then get to work.

Captain Archer comes back as promised and looks around. "I thought I said I wanted this sorted." He's testing me. I know it.

_Ask me for a file-set,_ I write.

He does and five seconds later, I hand it to him. "Where the hell did you learn to file?" he asks.

I shrug. _Law school_.

He groans. "I should have known. Let me guess… it was the course titled 'Red Tape and Delays: How To Arrange Them.'"

I'm insulted. There's no such course. If you can't figure out those things on your own, you have no business becoming a lawyer. There is, of course, nothing he can do, because he didn't specify which system I was supposed to use. Commander Tucker is a lot more explicit when he crafts actual _orders_ for me. He knows better than to trust me.

Captain Archer should know better too, and the look on his face says he knows he should have known better. There is also nothing wrong with the system, the quartermaster would probably be able to figure it out without a problem.(13)

"Well, you might as well go ahead for lunch, and then I expect to see you in my ready-room. Oh, and when you do… I take my coffee black: no cream, no sugar, fully caffeinated, nothing but coffee. I would like it hot, and there will be some sort of proper, Starfleet approved drinking-vessel for hot liquids. It will either be in that drinking vessel, or in some sort of Starfleet approved container for transporting hot, consumable liquids. Is that clear?"

I nod. I'm actually not trying to mess with him… I figure now that the best way to mess with him is to not mess with him. He has left me a loophole with the coffee business, but I don't want to go overboard. After all, he may have left it there on purpose.

I report to his ready room directly after lunch, packing a box with two carafes, two mugs and a smaller carafe of milk. A few of the bridge crew raise their eyebrows when they see me, but say nothing. I notice, though, that Commander Tucker's hands are shaking and there're still hints of white dust on his uniform.

I press the intercom button and Captain Archer answers. "Enter."

I do, feeling the stares that follow me in. I put one of the carafes and a mug on his desk, then he hands me a stack of padds.

"Do the ones marked 'Urgent' first… then we'll move on to some of the political ones." He grimaces a little when he says the last part; Captain Archer isn't too fond of politics.

I nod, and get started. He opens the carafe on his desk, sniffs it and then looks at me. "Lieutenant."

I look at the box at my feet and then up at him. I switch the carafes and pray he understands that it was a simple mistake.

He checks the new one then pours himself a cup of coffee. We work quietly for a bit, then I hear something.

I snap my fingers lightly to get his attention, then tilt my head towards the door. He looks at me quizzically.

I tap my ear and point at the door.

To my surprise, he starts to smile. He gets up and moves silently over to the door, waits for a few seconds then suddenly opens it. "Can I help you, gentlemen?"

Commander Tucker and Travis look startled and guilty and Travis begins moving back to his station. Commander Tucker is rubbing his ear like he had it up against the door when the door started to move.

"Problem, Commander?"

Commander Tucker blinks. "No, Sir. No problem. Everything's fine." He looks a little spaced, though.

"Excellent. Then you don't need to talk to me?"

"No." Commander Tucker slowly backs away and returns to the Engineering Station, trying to look nonchalant.(14)

"Good." Captain Archer closes the door and appears to start counting. When he reaches twenty, he opens the door again to the same two startled faces.

"Glad to know kindergarten is still in session." From the sound of his voice, he's getting his crocodile grin on.

Behind the implied children, Hoshi makes a few small adjustments to the comm. Captain Archer waits for the miscreants to disperse, then closes the door.

When he does, I disable the intercom.

"Lieutenant, I don't believe I asked…" He starts, irritated again.

_You WANT the bridge crew to eavesdrop?_ I write.

He looks startled, then nods. "It's nice to know I can trust my senior officers so much." An odd look comes across his face. "Hook it back up." He then takes my padd and scribbles some more instructions.

I nod, but my mind isn't really on this conversation. I really have to have a word with Rostov and get him to cut the Boy off all the sugar.

We get back to work. The amazing thing about myself and Captain Archer is that we _can_ spend extended periods of time together, provided neither one of us is speaking. The minute either one opens their mouth we're liable to say something that insults the other.

After twenty minutes, I realise the captain's plan with the intercom. Listening in on us, the bridge crew is getting nothing. As a result, they're starting to mutter, and _we're_ listening in on _them_.

"Come on, there's got to be _something_." Commander Tucker sounds like he's getting frustrated.

"Coffee cups," Hoshi confirms. "All I know is that somebody's drinking something."

"Oh, God. Her body's probably hidden behind a ceiling panel as we speak." Obviously, Commander Tucker didn't see me standing very much alive behind Captain Archer while the door was open.

"I doubt Captain Archer has killed her." Sub-commander T'Pol doesn't sound too worried about my possible loss of life.

"I wouldn't be too sure on that," Travis weighs in. "They are not exactly the best of friends."

"Which makes no sense, because they're the best of my friends." The Boy certainly knows how to turn an insult.

It gets so quiet that I think for a moment that the intercom is broken. Then there's an embarrassed cough.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that." Noise slowly resumes, but I know it was the sugar talking.

Captain Archer covers his face with his hand, probably to hide the snickers. He once said that the only thing bigger than Commander Tucker's ego was his ability to trip over it.

I'm worried though. It's only a matter of time now before he really gets going, and I suddenly remember those .eae files. Not only is the big idiot liable to tell everybody that they exist (or at least spout information from them), but if he's _really_ bad, he'll mention that _I've_ seen them. I'd rather people not know I know everything about them (or at least that I do now).

_He's been eating sugar._ I scribble a quick note and hand it to Captain Archer.

The captain's eyes grow wide and he looks from the padd to me for confirmation. Apparently, he's seen the turbo-charged version of Commander Tucker, too. "Who the hell is stupid enough to do that!" He looks at me as though I might have such disregard for human life.

I give him a look.(15)

Captain Archer groans. "I'm still blaming you. Now go out there and deal with him."

_Me?_ I point at my chest. It's not fair… I didn't sign on for hazardous duty.

"Damn right you, Lieutenant. _I'm_ not dealing with him in that state. You caused it, you fix it."

I did not cause it.

"I'm blaming you, Lieutenant; therefore it's all on your shoulders. I'm the captain; I'm allowed to do that."

I head for the door.

With a chance to assess the situation, it's my turn to groan. The Boy can't even sit still and worse, it looks like he's making some adjustments to…

I rush over and lift his hands up off the keyboard, but it's too late. The ship shudders and we drop out of warp. Then the lights go down.

"Oops." And now he tries for understatement of the millennium.

Fortunately, for Captain Archer, his door is programmed to open upon loss of power. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Um… Lieutenant Hess came rushing out and the power went off, Sir." Trust Travis to put it like that.

"I should have known," Captain Archer mutters.

"You know, I love it when it's dark. When I was a kid, I used to love to play hide and seek with all the lights out. One time I tripped over the coffee table…"

I slap a hand over Commander Tucker's mouth before he can make things worse.

He pulls it away. "Hess, I'm trying to tell a story."

"Shut up, Trip." It doesn't sound like Captain Archer's long on patience at the moment.

"I was just writing a report," the commander complains, obviously not listening to his captain. "And…"

This time the silence is glutinous.(16)

"I can fix it?" He tries, hopefully.

"No. Lieutenant Hess can fix it." Sure… make my life even _more_ miserable. "You're not going to touch anything."

Well, I can see his point there.

"It's not that big a…"

"Lieutenant, stop arguing with me."

"I'm a Commander," the Boy protests.

"Not if you keep that up." Apparently, Captain Archer's friendship only goes so far. It also shows how much sugar Commander Tucker has ingested. Even _I_ wouldn't go arguing technicalities if I'd just stranded the entire ship in deep space.

Commander Tucker mutters something about it not being fair and it's not that big a problem and why is everybody picking on him.

Given the extent of the situation, I do the only thing I can. Pray.

The panels flicker then light up as the system reboots. It's going to be a while before we can do anything, but at least light and heat are restored quickly. Apparently my prayers have been answered and somebody downstairs in engineering realised we needed a restart.

Commander Tucker sits in his chair, chewing on his fingernails and pouting. "I was just trying to make sure things stayed running smoothly."

"Lieutenant Hess, escort the commander to the brig, please." Captain Archer looks like he's trying not to hit something – or someone.

"Captain, I…" Sub-commander T'Pol seems ready to protest.

"Preferably in handcuffs," the captain adds. "I don't want him able to touch anything."

Naturally, since this is not my lucky day, he escapes. I try to catch him, but his legs are longer than mine and he simply runs away from me.

When I report this to the captain, I hear teeth grinding on the other end of the communication. (17)

"Between the two of you, I'm going to have a heart attack. The stress is going to get to me and when it does…"

Another comm. interrupts us. "Um… I need Lieutenant Hess. Now."

"Rostov! My buddy, my pal, my friend." And I've just located the fugitive.

"He's coming for me!" Rossie sounds appropriately panicked. "He looks… he's um… he's bouncing, Sir."

"Do not, under any circumstances, let him touch anything," the captain orders. "I don't care if he's your senior officer…"

"I'm sorry, but the number you have called is no longer in service." Rossie's comm. cuts out with an ominous drawl.

_This is all your fault_. I wish I had my voice back so I could mutter it. If Captain Archer hadn't taken me out of Engineering, then Rossie would never have had the opportunity to feed Commander Tucker that much sugar. If Commander Tucker hadn't had that much sugar, he'd still be a semi-rational human being right now. Simple logic. Phrased right, Captain Archer is responsible for anything that happens by creating a dangerous situation.

"Stop him, Lieutenant, before he tries to turn this ship into a Warp _ten_ vessel."

I don't bother to send back a response. Like I said, on sugar, Commander Tucker can be worse than me. For one thing, he gets brilliant ideas. The problem is, they're _so_ brilliant that no one else can understand them, and when he comes down from his high, he can't understand them either.(18) And poor Rossie hasn't figured out how to say no to his commanding officer, yet.

I race down to Engineering and look around. People are milling about and a few of them look disturbed. No one pays attention to me until I get violent.(19)

"He took Mr. Rostov and vanished," Crewman Bitten runs up to me and starts shaking my arm. "He looked… wild."

I pat Bitten's hand reassuringly. The truth is, I'm not that calm myself.

"They took a bunch of tools," someone else volunteers.

Oh, crap. I'd rather he was armed with a phase pistol than tools. There are only a limited number of things he can do with a phase pistol.

I finally track them down near a systems relay.

"I'm telling you, Rossie, this is going to make us _famous_. Instantaneous travel to anywhere in the universe… forget the Warp engine… we're going to make Warp travel obsolete. We're going to…"

"Sir… theoretically, that's impossible." Rossie tries, but he's not mentally equipped for this battle.

"So was _Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs_, but that didn't stop Walt Disney. Now, who would you rather be? Ol' Walt, or some nobody who had a chance at a great idea but decided he'd be better off if he stuck to something 'possible?'"

"Alive, Sir. Preferably in one piece and with everything where it belongs."

Commander Tucker snorts, as though such concerns are just petty.

I march over and lift the tools from Commander Tucker's hands, giving him my best glare.

"Well… you were siding with the cat-killer, so I didn't think you would be interested in becoming…"

"Who, what?" Rossie looks back and forth between us. "Who's killing cats?"

"Captain Archer."

I roll my eyes. Tucking the tools away, I pull out my padd and stylus. _He did not kill any cats. You are delusional._

"This, Rossie, is why you should never have any friends. It starts out that everything's fine and they're not getting along, but turn your back on them for a second and they gang up on you."

More so than I thought. Captain Archer creeps his way along the hallway from the opposite direction.

_Now, I want you to go to your quarters._ I'm not really thinking he'll listen to me, but I'm hoping to keep him distracted. I don't want him to find out he's cornered and panic because then I might have to hurt him.

He reaches over and pats me on the top of the head. "You're so _cute_ when you go all Mommyish."

He is so lucky he is my absolute, in-the-entire-universe, one-and-only best friend, because otherwise I'd have to hurt him just for doing and saying that. It's also a sign of how far into the sugar rush he is.

Captain Archer grabs him, but not well enough. The Boy twists away then, in another insane gesture, grabs me as a hostage.

Captain Archer stops and folds his arms over his chest. "And just what were you planning to do now?"

"Make my getaway." He makes it sound obvious, as though any fool should understand it.

"Where?" A hint of amusement enters the Captain's tone. "Bolivia, perhaps? Or maybe Australia?"

"Try and stop me," the Boy threatens.

"Be my guest. The shuttlepod bay is that way… on straight impulse you should get home in oh… three, four hundred years. I should warn you, though… there's no washroom facilities, so…"

"Then I demand a faster ship with the proper facilities!" Commander Tucker sounds smug, as though he's thought of the ultimate solution.

"You're standing in it," Captain Archer informs him. "And it happens to be mine. Go ahead and kill her, you still can't have it."

"You are evil, Jon. First you'd kill a cat, and now you're saying I should kill a member of your own crew?" Smug turns into astonishment. "That's cold."

Captain Archer shrugs and points at me. "That's Hess. Personally, I see it as a win-win situation."

I can only hope he doesn't really mean that. On the other hand, Commander Tucker suddenly seems to realise whom he's taken prisoner. He lets me go immediately and starts smoothing out my uniform.

"Sorry. You know I wouldn't really hurt you." He looks down over the top of my head and gives me the same look Evil Thing does when he knows he's chewed something important.

I know. Unfortunately, so does everybody else, so taking me hostage isn't quite the brilliant tactical move he thought it was.

I take his sleeve and lead him away before Captain Archer can give me any more orders what to do with him. Unlike Captain Archer, I know _precisely_ what needs to be done.

I take him back to my quarters and drop a game controller into his hands. Then I pick my most ultra-violent splatter fest and leave him to blow apart digital zombies until the excess energy wears off. As I leave, he looks perfectly happy with Evil Thing blissfully chewing on his hair.

I report back to Captain Archer who seems a little perturbed at my initiative.

"I would have preferred him going to the brig where we could keep an eye on him," he mutters.

I shrug.

The captain sighs. "Well, seeing as my chief engineer is out of commission and we've got major repairs to do…"

I raise my eyebrows questioningly.

"You're back in Engineering, Lieutenant. I want to be underway within the next couple of hours."

I nod.

He leans in close and shakes his finger under my nose. "Don't go thinking you've won, though. Like I told Trip: this is still my ship. You can't have it."

I nod. I don't want to be in charge, anyway.

"Oh, and tell Mr. Rostov that if he ever gives Commander Tucker that much sugar again, _he'll_ be the one looking at the inside of the brig."

I nod, but I don't think that's going to be a problem. After today, I don't think Rossie will feed Commander Tucker anything.

He sighs. "You know, some days I wonder about you."

I figure that on the rest of them, he's convinced: I'm trouble.

"You're smart – smarter than anyone I've ever met – you've got so much potential to do pretty much everything, yet you're constantly pulling the _stupidest_ stunts in the universe."

I'm stunned. I don't know how to respond. It's pretty much the first time he's out and out paid me a compliment, even if it is a backhanded one.

"Why do you do it? Why do you risk throwing away your career just to mess with someone's head?"

I take a deep breath. The truth is, I don't know. Part of it is that I've never really thought of this as a _career_. It's always been 'what I'm doing now,' just part of experimenting with Life. "I don't want to miss out, Sir." My voice is a little rusty and the sound of it surprises me. I didn't even know I was talking.

"Miss out?" His tone softens a little, as though it wasn't the answer he expected.

"I don't want to say 'I could've done…' I want to say 'I did it.' Because…" Because if there's one thing you learn growing up in a family like mine, it's that you don't know how long you've got to live. You can either obsess and be miserable, or you can enjoy what you've got. And since I don't sleep much… the reality is I probably have a lot less than most people.

He stares at me for a long, hard moment, his eyes darting back and forth as he scans my face. "And if now sacrifices the future?"

I shrug. "How do we know the future, Sir?" It hurts a bit to keep talking, but these strike me more as things that need to be _said_. "Wouldn't you rather do things while you can?"

He blinks a couple of times. "I guess I've always kept one eye on the road ahead. It's not a good idea to head out if you haven't plotted a course."

"That's why I'm not driving." It strikes me that this is probably the conversation he wanted to have when he was drugged up and driving me crazy, but was too happy to come out and say it.

"There are worse thing in life than responsibility," he says.

"One should always be kind and leave some good things for other people." I can't help it, sometimes things just come out.

He looks at me oddly then starts laughing. Then he sobers up. "You know, things won't always be like this. I won't always be captain… Commander Tucker won't always be your boss."

I know, and that scares me more than death. Which is another reason why this isn't an all-out career for me. Without Commander Tucker, this wouldn't be fun anymore and I don't want any job that's simply a chore.

He sighs. "Just think about it, Lieutenant."

I nod, not wanting to say any more.

"In the meantime, go undo the damage your illustrious boss has caused, and stay out of my hair." The irritated tone is back, but underlain with something else, though I'm not sure just what.

I make my escape and head off to Engineering. Back where I belong.

* * *

(1) In more ways than one. He captures me in the midst of sorting out my wiring types. 

(2) I've seen the Boy flat-out lie to admirals. This tells you how intimidating Captain Archer can really be. Forget lawyer, I think he's the reincarnation of Judge Roy Bean.

(3) This is another reason Captain Archer hates me. I automatically bring out Commander Tucker's melodramatic side.

(4) Well, someone might have… but I thought it was the first truly human thing I'd ever seen him do. Up until then I thought he was one of those robots with 'real people personalities' downloaded… a sort of chipper version of Marvin the Paranoid Android

(5) At which time Evil Thing promptly sunk said teeth into Commander Tucker's hand, leaving Commander Tucker in serious pain and on antibiotics for a week. Kind of like a lot of Commander Tucker's old girlfriends.

(6) I will admit that when it comes to innocent, pity-me expressions, Evil Thing is about the only competition Commander Tucker has. Sometimes I think that, despite the species difference, they really are related.

(7) And possibly other anatomical parts.

(8) Okay… that one's usually the Boy.

(9) Ditto

(10) It may seem like an empty room, but I am dealing with Captain Archer. It never hurts to be certain.

(11) He's completely wrong. The best conspirators work out in the open and they wouldn't be caught dead whispering, because whispering only attracts people's attention.

(12) I'm not saying the Boy is a messy eater… but he does have a habit of wiping his hands on his clothes before starting a new task. Many a time he's been seen with handprints all over his butt. He's not _that_ popular.

(13) Then again, given the systems most quartermasters use, I've probably gone for the simplistic.

(14) And like anyone _trying_ to look nonchalant, looks guilty as hell.

(15) Or rather, _the_ look. The one that says: "Of course it wasn't me, you stupid idiot, because I am a hell of a lot smarter than that." However, because it's only a look he can't do much. Lieutenants are allowed to eyeball Captains.

(16) Thick, heavy and clinging to everything.

(17) Okay, so it takes me a bit to find a terminal I can type on. _I'm_ not the one who made me sick.

(18) Which means they're either brilliant, or insane. This being Commander Tucker, I'm predisposed to say the first. Other people often argue the latter.

(19) Fortunately for the people, I decide to get violent on the wall. It works everytime.


End file.
